


Hard Evidence

by monimala



Category: The Young and the Restless
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gap Filler, M/M, harder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-02
Updated: 2014-10-02
Packaged: 2018-02-19 15:57:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2394338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monimala/pseuds/monimala
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set after Nick and Sharon's September 2014 bachelor/ette shenanigans. </p>
<p>
  <i>Detective Mark Harding struts. Like he owns the place and everything in it.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hard Evidence

The first thing he notices when he walks in is the man at the jukebox. Not that he's made a habit of noticing men. More like…an intellectual inquiry. Yeah, that's it. That's why his gaze is drawn to the broad shoulders and the way the material of the dark blue shirt hugs them. That is, Kevin thinks academically, a pretty impressive back. Tapering down to an equally impressive lower half. He's not built that way. Fishers are a narrow breed. Slight and wiry. He can't even see the juke, this guy is so wide. He just sees arms gripping the sides. Big, thick arms.

Something catches in his throat, and his stomach lurches. Not with fear, though. He is long past being afraid of what a hand can do to him. He moves further into the dive, glad none of the usual Genoa City suspects are back for a repeat of Nick's bachelor party. It's blissfully people-he-knows free. No one to remind him of Kevin Fisher the arsonist or of Kevin Fisher the twice-failed husband.

He orders a pumpkin ale from the girl working behind the bar, trying and failing not to crane his neck and stare at Big Blue as Zeppelin drifts from the speakers. Of course. Of course the guy listens to Zeppelin.

And of course it's Harding.

That's what hits him 15 seconds too late, as the detective turns around and catches him looking.

The salt-and-pepper hair. The beard. The disgusted curl of his lip and the deceptively puppy-dog eyes. He should've known immediately. No one else in Genoa City is built like a fucking mountain.

Kevin tries to whip around, go back to his drink and pretend he wasn't just engaging in some completely professional-and-research-based perusal, but the jig is up. He's been made.

"Fish." The sneer only gets deeper and more smug as Harding walks up to him. No, 'walk' is too mild a word. Detective Mark Harding struts. Like he owns the place and everything in it. "What are you doing here? You planning on starting another brawl?"

He'd point out he didn't start the bar fight, he was just a bystander, but he knows Harding is more interested in busting his balls than the truth. Probably not all that different from how he approaches police work. "I'm getting a drink," he says instead. "You know, an adult beverage."

One eyebrow goes up. Harding swipes a half-empty bottle of MGD from the table where he must've left it before making his music selections. "You call _that_ frou-frou microbrew shit a drink?"

Kevin exhales, and his frustration gets the better of him. "Is there anything you won't pick a fight with me about?"

Miracle of miracles, that actually seems to give the man pause. He mulls the question over, chewing on the swell of his lower lip. And then he grins and says… "No."

There is nothing intellectual or academic or professional about that grin. Dark, wolfish, challenging and more than a little self-important. It's a "fuck you" grin. No. Worse. It's a "fuck me" grin.

Kevin shifts on the barstool, curling in on himself. Great. He has the world's most inconvenient erection, and it's not so much that it's for a man that's embarrassing. It's that it's for _this_ man. Somebody who hates him, who derives actual joy from giving him hell. The last bike trip he took, he discovered a couple of very nice, no-name UIC students who were perfectly willing to answer a few of his longstanding questions about his sexual orientation. He's got no real problem with latent bisexuality. It's better than arson, for one thing. Better than two unstable wives, too. But Harding…? Freaking Detective Harding? Of all people?

It's probably too much to hope that the man's a bear or whatever. That the too-tight shirts and thigh-hugging jeans and swagger are all part of how he lures unsuspecting young men into his bed.

The stool next to him teeters as Harding takes a seat. Because, of course, he's not going away now. "Do I even want to know what's going on in your head?"

Kevin takes a long gulp of his beer before he even dares to reply. "Probably not."

The detective shudders. "Who knows what you've got knocking around in there, Fish? I don't know how you live with yourself. Anybody else would probably tap out."

It's almost a compliment. If he squints and tilts his head, it's sounds like admiration. Maybe that's why he's honest. Why he admits, "I almost did tap out a couple times." He frowns down at the dark wood grain of the bar. "Would've made things a whole lot easier for you, huh? Not having me around the GCPD."

It's Harding's turn to frown. "Wait. You're serious?" He swivels in his seat, facing Kevin. "Fisher, I'm sorry."

"What? What was that?" He clutches his chest. Ignoring the fact that he'd like to clutch something else. Something that's throbbing up against his fly just because Harding's looking at him. "You're actually apologizing to me?"

"Don't get used to it." Harding's eyes don't lose their focus, watching him over the rim of the clear glass MGD bottle as he drinks.

Kevin tries not to be fascinated by the smooth column of his throat, the open collar of his shirt and the muscles working as he swallows. He fails. Because this whole night has gone from theory to practice

_God_ , he could use the practice.

Would Harding punch him in the face if Kevin touched his knee right now? Would Kevin, despite his assertion to the contrary, wind up starting a brawl after all? Does he want to spend tonight in jail? Would that be a relief? The questions are dumb. He asks himself anyway. Anything to keep from thinking of Harding and his hard-on and how the two are related.

_Shit_.

The last third of his beer goes down way too fast and he gestures for another.

"You think more than anybody I know, Fish. It's creepy. Anyone ever tell you that?"

He's been called 'creepy' by more people than he can count. He laughs, because he has no other recourse. "Yeah, well, I had poor impulse control when I was younger. I'm trying to make up for that."

"What kind of impulses?" There's no way Harding doesn't know his rap sheet. So, he's not asking about his criminal history. That leaves only one other possibility. He's…flirting.

The blood drains from Kevin's face and whatever he might've said in response comes out as a strangled noise as he starts coughing. Choking, really. On nothing more than insanity and air. Harding's big fist comes down, thumping him between the shoulder blades. It doesn't help. Especially when his fingers spread out and he begins rubbing slow soothing circles across Kevin's back.

"You okay?"

"N-no." Wrong answer. "Y-yes." He tries to get a hold of himself. But he's flustered and flushed and ridiculously turned on. "I'm fine," he manages to grind out as he tugs at the collar of his henley and undoes the top two buttons.

Harding's gaze flickers downward. He inhales. The tip of his tongue slides across his lower lip. Like two tiny buttons and a few inches of skin equals a striptease.

Definitely flirting.

The air between them is hot and thick. Everybody else in the bar has been reduced to white noise. Background. Inconsequential. Kevin wonders what they would do if Harding took him up against the jukebox. Slammed him into the machine, made him hang onto those sides and read every song title out loud while they fucked. Can you charge a cop with public indecency? Is there a special segment of the widows and orphans fund set aside for this kind of thing?

He's never had trouble charming women. Something about his irresistible combination of bad boy and little boy. And, hell, those Chicago college students were just a couple of shots away from a threesome. But he has no idea how to proceed with Mark Harding. Maybe that's why he reaches into his back pocket for his wallet and pulls out a crumpled stack of bills. Maybe that's why he mumbles, "I should go" and presses his knees together, praying his dick will settle down before he has to stand up.

"No." Harding's hand — funny how he never took it away — skates up to rest against the back of his neck. The detective leans forward, close enough for his breath to whisper across Kevin's cheek. "You should come" is what he says. A harsh, husky whisper that obliterates any possibility of Kevin losing his erection.

"Fuck."

He doesn't realize he's moving until the bar stool clatters to the floor behind him. He's on auto-pilot, following Harding — _Mark_ , he thinks; he should call him Mark if they're about to do something this stupid — into the narrow hallway off the side of the room. No, not following. Being led. Because those merciless fingers are still on his neck, curving around his throat, the most sexually charged stranglehold he's ever known. His back hits the men's room door and then he's being shoved through, across the threshold, as the door swings shut behind them. And then, like at the jukebox, Harding's shoulders fill up his field of vision. His shoulders, his chest, his arms.

Kevin has a precious few minutes to take it all in before he's spun around and pinned to the sink. Hands on the sides. Grasping for purchase. "What…no kiss?" he gasps out, as Harding reaches between porcelain and denim to rub his cock. He sounds hysterical. He _is_ hysterical. Breathless, devoid of any and all thought except "Holy shit, this is happening." He barely recognizes the wild-eyed man in the cracked mirror, or the guy behind him. Harding's not a bear, he's a beast.

Mark goes from gripping his neck to gripping his hair, pulling his head back. And then, yeah, he kisses him. It's all tongue and teeth and heat and intensity. As rough as the fingers that work at Kevin's belt and fly and yank down both of their jeans just enough to make this work. This. This thing. This isn't making love or having sex or even fucking. Nothing he's ever done before with anyone else. It's rutting. Like two animals in heat. Because of course Mark's dick is as big as the rest of him. Heavy and thick and unyielding. And of course Kevin's just going to take it. And take it. And take it.

“Harder,” he urges, barely able to form the word.

“Hard _ing_ ,” Mark corrects with a steady chuckle. “I think the name you’re looking for is ‘Harding.’”

It’s crazy and empirical all at the same time. Not that he’s particularly surprised. 

Fishers are a narrow breed. But they’ve never quite gone straight. 

 

 

 


End file.
